


In a dream, in a vision of the night -

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Dream Sex, Dreamsharing, First Time, Handwaving the logistics of anal sex because it's a dream!, M/M, Magic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sidhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17996213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: - when deep sleep falls on people as they slumber in their beds.Diarmuid has a dream. It's not like any dream he's ever had before.





	1. Chapter 1

Diarmuid always knows when he is dreaming. In his dreams, all the colour has been bleached from the world, only shadows and light remaining to illuminate his sight. This is how he knows he is asleep when he finds himself wandering through the forest which surrounds the abbey. It is quite possible that this is a nightmare – but no, he isn’t running, and there are no pagan sacrifices nailed to the trees by the side of the path. He feels no urgency, only quiet peacefulness. The grass is soft beneath his bare feet, and there are no stones for him to stumble upon. Even the rough cloth of his tunic is smoother here, like how he imagines fine silk must feel – water flowing against his skin.

Eventually he comes to a clearing, white light spreading through the trees into the blinding centre. Wildflowers dot the earth, and Diarmuid takes a brief moment to regret that they hold no colour for him. Birds Diarmuid cannot see rustle in the branches of the trees, chirping and singing. His eye catches on a shadow in the middle of the clearing, which quickly resolves itself into a figure, sitting cross-legged. Even from behind Diarmuid can recognise him. By the scars across his body and the cross upon his bare back, it is the Mute.

Diarmuid wishes he had another name to call him by – but alas, the Mute cannot write, and there is no way for him to convey who he is. Brother Ciarán says that the Mute may not want to be who he once was – that his silence is more a vow than an ailment. And Diarmuid understands that. The son of pagan worshippers, raised by monks in isolation … He sometimes wonders who _he_ would be without his name, without his rank of novice, without the abbey.

Those are dangerous thoughts, though, and he dares not stray toward them long.

Diarmuid takes a step forward, into the clearing, and the grass is as soft as down. Just like the path leading here, there are no sharp rocks or sticks to avoid, and he steps forwards with delight he cannot help but indulge. He wrinkles his nose with a smile, feeling as light and free as a child.

Slowly, he makes his way towards the Mute. Perhaps in this dream he will speak – that might be nice. Though, whatever voice Diarmuid’s mind conjures for him could only be inadequate. Diarmuid once had a nightmare, soon after half the brotherhood was witness to one of the Mute’s attacks, of him screaming and weeping somewhere in an endless, labyrinthine version of the abbey. That voice was not the Mute’s … That voice was the culmination of all Diarmuid has ever feared lives in the forest.

But this is no nightmare. Diarmuid does not know what kind of dream this is. He has a sense, somewhere in his gut, that it is a good dream. The best kind of dream.

As Diarmuid approaches, the Mute does not turn – but, emboldened by his dreaming, Diarmuid reaches out to touch him, gently pressing his fingers against his shoulder.

And so like a dream, the Mute turns towards him with a kind of inevitability, a self-assured movement that contains none of the tense energy the Mute would really display, if this were real. Still, though – his eyes widen upon the sight of Diarmuid, and Diarmuid wonders at how those eyes express so much that should be hidden without a voice.

“Hello,” Diarmuid greets him. His voice is hushed, as if the air itself longs for his peace.

To his surprise, the Mute reaches up, to where Diarmuid’s hand still rests upon his shoulder. He strokes the back of Diarmuid’s hand, twisting his neck to look upon the sight of their hands folded together. Diarmuid’s heart murmurs such a terrible thing, and he realises – this is one of _those_ dreams.

He has had them before, but in abstract, with faces and bodies anonymous, warm and inviting for the simple sake of themselves. Diarmuid had awoken from them startled. Aware of his body, of his sin, in a way he never was before.

Brother Cathal had blushed and told him to pray, when Diarmuid had stuttered and stumbled over his confession. The next time, Brother Ciarán had simply sighed and told him that such dreams would come as they may, but Diarmuid must not indulge them, only pray for God’s loving mercy and forgiveness. A forgiveness, Ciarán had reassured him, that God would always grant.

But only if Diarmuid was sorry. Only if he did not choose it.

His heart murmurs again.

The Mute twists their hands together, palm against palm, and tugs gently, pulling Diarmuid down towards him. Diarmuid settles in the grass before him, still holding his hand. But then the Mute only looks at him, pondering – Diarmuid knows not what. He looks back, into the dark eyes he only has occasion to glance upon in reality. He wishes he could see the shades of brown that make themselves known on rare occasion outside of this strange dream, but in this world of shadows, the Mute’s eyes are endless pools of black.

The Mute raises his other hand to Diarmuid’s cheek, cupping it in his palm. Emboldened, Diarmuid copies the gesture, running his fingers through the Mute’s beard. The Mute closes his eyes and sighs, a rough-sounding thing, the edge of sound to it telling tale of how deep his voice might once have been. Somewhere deep inside him, Diarmuid feels a flare of light and warmth, like the final strike of flint which sets the flame.

He wants to be closer.

_It is only a dream_ , whisper the grey trees, the gentle grass, the soft winds.

Diarmuid’s hand slips down the Mute’s chest, feeling the hard muscle under his scars. He pulls back, and lays himself down upon the earth at the Mute’s side. The Mute’s gaze follows him, and once more his eyes widen when Diarmuid tugs at his hand, pulling him to loom over Diarmuid. His eyes flicker over Diarmuid’s body, the shape revealed by the folds of his tunic falling towards the ground. His hand twitches in Diarmuid’s. Diarmuid squeezes it back, a sensation like the rush of a summer storm in his chest.

Diarmuid puts his free hand back against the Mute’s cheek – and this time, pulls him in, until their lips are a hairsbreadth apart. He can feel the ghostly sensation of the Mute’s breath against his lips, and the tension in his frame, as if afraid to take the final step. But here, where there are no consequences ( _where he can pretend he will not be ashamed upon waking_ ,) Diarmuid is bold.

He kisses the Mute.

And such a dream – such a wonderful dream! – he knows how to do it. He presses their lips together gently at first, once more and again, until the Mute’s mouth is slack. Eventually, he slips his tongue against the Mute’s lips, daring to taste him.

And then –

The Mute surges forward, pressing Diarmuid into the ground. The excitation of Diarmuid’s blood responds in kind, and he finds himself pulling the Mute closer, greedy for him. Diarmuid threads his fingers through the Mute’s hair, and runs his fingernails against his scalp, his neck, his back; and Diarmuid is surprised with the violence of his want. The Mute’s strong hands hold him down, but he doesn’t mind – he opens his mouth, accepting the press of the Mute’s tongue with desperation and languid reassurance in turn.

And because this is a dream, because it is not real – Diarmuid feels no fear when the Mute rises, only to settle between Diarmuid’s legs. He is not afraid when the Mute pulls Diarmuid’s tunic up and over his head, leaving him naked and vulnerable, his arousal obvious. The Mute pulls his own clothing away, and it only takes a moment, for he is only wearing his trousers. Diarmuid is not afraid at all when he sees the shape of the Mute.

His mouth waters.

The Mute leans down again, raised above him with wonder in his eyes. He presses his forehead to Diarmuid’s, and Diarmuid breathes through a shuddery sigh, as something else – something kinder, and infinitely more tender than hunger, flows through him. For a moment in the stillness, he forgets that he is dreaming. Such contentment and such longing he has only known in the deepest of his prayers.

The Mute moves against him, suddenly, and a Diarmuid gasps. The Mute leans down to capture it in his mouth, kissing him with such intensity that Diarmuid can do nothing but take it. _For your love is better than wine_. Better than anything Diarmuid has ever tasted.

And thinking it, the floodgates are opened. Holy verses fill his mind, each affirming – none which remind him of the impossibility of this, the false nature of his dreaming, the sin of his body. _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth_ , Diarmuid thinks, and the Mute does. And then the question; the question that a holy man once asked, which he dares not: _If two lie down together, they will keep warm; But how can one be warm alone_?

He does not want to be alone anymore. He cannot stand it any longer.

He hears a voice inside him say, _and they shall become one flesh_.

As if hearing his thoughts, the Mute moves down, and though it should be painful, it is not. Though it should feel wrong, it does not. Though it should cause every fibre of Diarmuid’s being to revolt, it does not. The Mute enters him, and Diarmuid makes a sound he didn’t know he could.

The sensation is overwhelming. Every part of him blooms. He opens for the Mute with utter abandon, clinging on to him for life. The Mute makes quiet sounds in his ear, breathing heavily as he begins to move, pushing in and out in a steady rhythm that drives Diarmuid’s pleasure higher and higher.

It has never felt like this. All his furtive rutting, half-asleep – the memory of his dreams faint upon his skin – that had only ever been to fulfil an animalistic urge, an addiction to the inevitable end. But this feeling sends a trembling through his limbs, sparks shooting along his back from the fire roaring inside him. His eyes are closed, his mouth open against the skin of the Mute’s neck, sucking. It goes on until he can hardly stand it anymore, desperate for relief.

And that relief –

It comes upon him like a wave, forcing a cry from him, a sound like he’s been wounded. He shudders, limbs tightening around the Mute, who stiffens in the next moment, finding his release just as Diarmuid’s begins to fade.

Diarmuid holds him through it, not letting up on his grip. The Mute rests his forehead against Diarmuid’s, eyes shut. Diarmuid closes his eyes too, stroking the Mute’s back, breathing with him. After a minute, the Mute pulls back, looking closely at Diarmuid, running fingers along his mouth. Diarmuid’s eyes stray to the spot on the Mute’s neck that he had been kissing – it is dark, a shadow upon it that would make a mighty bruise if this were real.

If it were real.

“I’m dreaming,” he murmurs, already feeling the beautiful world fade around him. Tears prick at his eyes as he realises he must wake.

But, before he does –

The Mute opens his mouth, and speaks.

“Diarmuid,” he whispers.

Diarmuid feels his face transform, feels his shock reflected in his expression.

That voice is rough from disuse. That voice carries the same edge that his sighs had carried when he was inside Diarmuid. That voice –

Diarmuid wakes.

His body is – wet. He flushes with embarrassment, knowing he will have to clean himself up, just like the last time. He will have to confess, only – even as he thinks it, he shies away. He cannot tell Brother Ciarán about _this_. This is far beyond anything he’s felt, anything he’s done before. There can be no forgiveness for a sin he chose. And he did choose it. Dream or no dream. He remembers every sensation with such clarity it startles him. Unconsciously, he finds himself running his hand along his mouth, just as the Mute had.

Oh, the _Mute_. How will Diarmuid ever face him?

Diarmuid forces himself up, thankful that it appears no one else is awake yet. Outside, the darkness fills his senses, and he stamps his feet to get some feeling into them. The winters here are scarcely liveable, so even in summer, the nights are cold. Diarmuid makes his way to the stream near the abbey where no one will find him at this hour.

Yet as he passes through the abbey, animals shuffling at his approach, he sees a figure already there. He freezes, uncertain of what to do. Before he can do anything, however, the figure turns – and like his dream, he immediately recognises the shape of the Mute.

Diarmuid feels a little weak at the sight of him. But no – there is no way for the Mute to know what terrible things he has dreamed of him. No way for him to know that the evidence of what Diarmuid did is currently turning sticky against his stomach, under his tunic.

The Mute slowly makes his way towards Diarmuid, with his face towards the ground, watching his steps carefully. Diarmuid stands completely still, somehow unable to move. As he draws near, the Mute finally looks up. Diarmuid, still frozen, finds the look on his face impossible to interpret. When they are only a step apart, Diarmuid’s eyes catch on something – a shadow –

No, a bruise. A bruise on the Mute’s neck.

Just where Diarmuid had sucked, and kissed him until he couldn’t anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

The day passes. Slowly, in fits and starts, but it passes.

No one remarks upon the visible bruise on the Mute’s neck. Though it is as damning as a brand, as bright as a flame to Diarmuid, the monks do not seem to notice it. Perhaps they simply assume he got it performing some task or other, an injury in a slightly unusual place. Diarmuid wonders if his brothers, chaste as they are, do not know that such a thing can appear during – certain acts. Certainly Diarmuid had not known it.

If he had, he might have –

But there is no use in thinking what Diarmuid _might_ have done. There is only the fact of what he _did_ , an act so far beyond the scope of his wildest imaginings that it is a wonder he did not realise what a terrible spell he had been put under until well after the act.

He flushes to recall himself, as wanton as a … as … Diarmuid has no comparison for it. Only sinners, like the Magdalene, before she was saved through Christ. God’s mercy is all that he can hope for now, for no one here in the world will forgive him.

And yet.

There is still a part of him which … remembers with something other than shame. Something which races in his blood, sending licks of fire along his skin. In flashes, the previous night appears to him, memories of his body as much as his mind. The weight of the Mute, pressing him into the earth. A low sound, just below a full-throated groan, in his ear. And the sensation of the Mute inside him, so utterly alien and so wonderfully right.

He shouldn’t think of it like that.

What he should think of is _how_. How such a thing could be possible. If this is some test of God, or something else – some Pagan magic coming upon him, intended to lead him astray. As night approaches, Diarmuid knows his only choice is to ask.

“Brother Rua?”

“Yes?” Brother Rua climbs to his feet from where he’s been working amongst the vegetables with a groan.

“I have a question.”

Diarmuid’s throat feels like it will close up at any second, but he has to know. He has to.

“A theological matter?” Brother Rua raises his eyebrows, though his eyes are narrowed against the late afternoon sun. He is used to Diarmuid’s interested questioning and likely expects something similar.

“Not exactly.”

Brother Rua pauses a moment.

“Well, go on,” he says eventually.

“You told me … you told me once about the place of the Sídhe. Where the Tuatha Dé Danann come out at night cast spells upon the water, to bewitch travellers,” Diarmuid begins.

“I did.”

“I was wondering … what sort of spells can they cast? Could … Is it possible for the Sídhe to enchant you while sleeping, in your dreams? What if one of the Pagans wanted to harm you? Could they call on the Tuatha Dé Danann to ensnare you?”

“Diarmuid, that is a very serious thing to ponder. Have you been sleeping well?”

_Too well_. Diarmuid flushes.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. I was just – thinking, that the division of the waking world and the sleeping is so stark, perhaps … we might not be affected in the same way by evil spirits.”

“Well, yes and no,” Brother Rua explains. “In truth we are far more vulnerable to the evil of spirits and demons while dreaming.”

“Oh,” Diarmuid replies softly, feeling small.

“But so too are we open to the will of God. Remember, God appeared to many of his chosen prophets in dreams.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Interpreting dreams is a difficult thing. Sometimes they mean nothing, sometimes, perhaps, they may be fortuitous. Otherwise they may be temptations to sin. I … It is curious you came to speak of this to me today. Perhaps I should not tell you, it –”

“No,” Diarmuid interrupts. “Please. I would like to know.”

Brother Rua hums, considering, squinting at Diarmuid in the dying light. Finally he comes to a decision, glancing around before leaning in to speak softly.

“It _is_ rather remarkable timing, your coming to ask me this. You see, I once heard tale … as a small boy, you understand, before I joined the abbey … That there is a week in springtime during which the Pagans would worship the Sídhe through sleeping. It was said that the Tuatha Dé Danann gave them the ability to share in each other’s dreaming, and for these seven nights, they would frolic madly in the visions conjured by their evil spirits, neglecting all else. As I recall that festival was just about this time, every year, in the height of spring.”

Misinterpreting the look on Diarmuid’s face, Brother Rua hastens to reassure him.

“But, Diarmuid, you must not worry. Though you are born of the Pagan tribes, you are as welcome here as any brother, and no Sídhe magic will harm you. Many tales of Sídhe are false, or exaggerated, to make them seem more powerful than they really are and to encourage men to turn away from God.”

“Oh,” Diarmuid says faintly. “Thank you, Brother Rua.”

“You are quiet welcome, my young friend. Come, let’s to prayer.”

Prayer is exactly what Diarmuid needs right now, to stop himself from panicking.

So it is evil that is responsible for his dreaming. Evil has been playing him like a simple instrument, letting him choose his sin. And Diarmuid had fallen right into its trap.

“Brother Rua?”

Brother Rua glances at Diarmuid as they walk together to the hall, nodding for him to continue.

“If what you said is true … what can we Christians do against it?”

“Pray,” Brother Rua replies simply. “Most especially to the archangels. For they appeared to many of God’s chosen in dreams, and they will protect you from anything which is false.”

Then there is hope.

Diarmuid _will_ pray, he will pray until the very moment he falls asleep, and he will beg the archangels to intercede and show him the _truth_ – show him the path he must follow.

And so he does. From the moment his conversation with Brother Rua ends, Diarmid prays. He continues avoiding the company of the Mute, but that is not difficult when there are so few hours left in the day. Diarmuid only catches a fleeting glimpse of him in the distance, walking over a crest, away from the abbey. No doubt to gather something or other for Brother Ciarán.

Diarmuid retires to sleep as darkness falls, but cannot find that unconscious world for hours. He tosses and turns, agonising over what he will find when he eventually does enter his dreams. He names the archangels over and over again, begging them to intercede on his behalf and protect him from this temptation.

Eventually, his exhausted body succumbs to the inevitable. As the last vestiges of his consciousness slip away, he finds a prayer at last which sends him off.

_If this be false, Lord, send me signs and wonders. But if this is your will, let it be_.

 

~

 

Diarmuid always knows when he is dreaming.

When he finds himself on the same grey path, with the same quiet sounds of the forest against his ears, he knows that he is exactly where he was last night.

He stops in his tracks, heart beating erratically.

This – is impossible. He prayed. He asked all the archangels to intercede on his behalf, to protect him from all evil temptations. He begged for God to keep him safe. He asked for signs and wonders. He –

He said, _if this is your will, let it be_.

Which means –

 

~

 

Diarmuid wakes with a start.

He remains stiff with fear in bed for many minutes, trying to calm down. He forces his breath to slow, his arms to remain still at his sides, not shaking. It cannot be possible. It cannot be true – that this dreaming world is God’s will. Brother Rua had said, had he not? This is a trick, a Sídhe glamour. Nothing more. Diarmuid might, _might_ be forgiven for his first temptation, but surely God does not intend for him to give in once more.

He must try again. He must pray with conviction – with strength.

And so he does.

For another hour yet, he prays, and this time the message is clear.

_Show me the path I must take. Let me not stray from your will. Show me where I must go_.

 

~

 

Diarmuid always knows when he is dreaming.

When Diarmuid finds himself standing in the clearing, the forest path nowhere to be seen, he knows exactly why he is seeing this place.

Across from him, several footsteps away and mirroring him in every way, is the Mute.

Diarmuid lets out a breath, a rush of air that feels like an aborted sob. To his shame, he feels a lump rise in his throat, tears gathering in his eyes. He takes a step forward. Between them, there is only air, but it feels like an ocean. The shadowy grass ripples into waves in the breeze, as delicate as summer rain.

The Mute begins walking towards him. Diarmuid keeps going, until they meet in the middle of the clearing, but they do not touch one another. The Mute looks … confused, almost. Diarmuid watches him frown, eyes roaming over Diarmuid’s face. Diarmuid takes a shuddering breath, desperately trying to keep his tears inside, and the Mute reaches out –

“ _God_ ,” Diarmuid cries out, stepping away.

The Mute’s hand hangs in the air, frozen. His face betrays alarm, but he does not speak. Though he can here. Diarmuid _knows_ he can.

(His name. Only his name.)

“I asked the archangels to intercede for me,” Diarmuid whispers. “I begged God to take away temptation. Brother Rua … He told me it was a trick of the Sídhe, a Pagan ritual. I thought … I thought I could rise above my birth. We are all made anew in Christ, are we not?”

The Mute does not answer.

“I was wrong. I am tainted.”

The Mute’s eyes are shining, and still he does not speak.

“But it didn’t feel evil,” Diarmuid admits, finally. “It didn’t feel like a trick. I had never … I felt whole. I felt loved. Please, did you feel it too? Did you feel the same?”

There is a glinting in the Mute’s eyes, a kind of acknowledgment. After several breaths of silence, to Diarmuid’s surprise, the Mute nods. A tiny, imperceptible thing. Diarmuid sucks in another shaking breath.

“I asked … I asked God to show me where I was meant to be. I asked him to put me on his chosen path, to lead me into the light of his love. And I … I came here. To you.”

The Mute looks at him, and in his dark eyes, there is … hope. Yes, Diarmuid would call it _hope_ , and amazement, and the agony of disbelief. And for that he cannot help himself any more. He steps forward, and wraps his arms around the Mute’s neck, pulling his head down to rest on his shoulder. The Mute is stiff and awkward at first, but he softens, moulding his body to Diarmuid’s, wrapping his strong arms about Diarmuid’s waist. Diarmuid waits, and then puts his lips to the Mute’s ear, whispering.

“If it is you – if you are not some spirit disguised – come to me when we wake. Show me that you remember.”

And then, because he is dreaming, and he is allowed to be bold, Diarmuid continues.

“Find me and I will tell you everything that _I_ remember.”

And before he can see the Mute’s reaction, he wakes.

 

~

 

The day passes. Like a confusing, hazy dream – though, Diarmuid knows now, _not_ – but it passes.

He does not see the Mute for some time. They are separated during their chores, which is not unusual, but is certainly inconvenient, for it is the only time Diarmuid has to spend with him. All else is at prayer or study.

He glumly sets down his bucket upon a dune, and sits in the reeds poking their heads out of the sand, letting out a long sigh. The ocean rushes in and out, sighing back at him. Diarmuid shouldn’t linger here long – it’s lazy of him to rest when his brothers are hard at work. But he’s tired from the lack of sleep, and he’s …

Lonely. He’s lonely.

Knowing that – putting the name to this terrible feeling that’s been following him for so long – it feels like the sudden understanding that comes with his studies; when he’s been trying for so long to grasp some arcane knowledge, only for it all to make sense at once. Loneliness is the name for this. Loneliness is his day to day existence, lost and isolated from his brothers, with no knowledge of any life but this.

And the Mute –

The way Diarmuid _feels_ when he’s around the Mute. That is the remedy. That lightness, the freedom to express his thoughts, no matter how silly, no matter how naïve, no matter how – how potentially heretical. That wonderful thrill that rushes through him like a gale off the sea. _That_ is everything his loneliness is not.

When they moved together in the dream, unthinking, unjustified, _free_ – it had been a revelation. It had been the peak of every moment of reprieve Diarmuid had ever felt in the Mute’s company. It _had_ felt right. And Diarmuid can no longer convince himself of its wrongness. He won’t try any more to do so. Not when God led them both to each other.

A quiet sound from behind him interrupts his thoughts, and he turns.

It is the Mute.

It could be nobody else.

Diarmuid watches carefully as the Mute hesitates, his uncertain eyes revealing his doubt. Diarmuid places his hand on the sand beside him, a clear invitation. The Mute sits slowly, tucking his knees into his arms. Diarmuid sits crossed legged, arms in his lap. There is a long silence.

“Tell me, my friend,” Diarmuid begins casually, “Have you been sleeping well?”

The Mute’s arm shakes, his strong muscles beneath his shirt twitching. Diarmuid turns his head to look at the Mute’s shocked face.

“Because I have.”

And that causes the shock to melt into something else, something far more delicate, far more cautious.

“I have been dreaming such wonderful dreams lately,” Diarmuid continues. “I’ve been wishing – wishing almost that I could live in them, in that world. I found a treasure there, and I don’t like to let it go when I wake.”

Diarmuid watches, feeling his eyes flickering over the Mute’s face for any sign – any chance that he understands.

“Tell me what you dream,” he whispers.

The Mute unwraps one arm from around his knees and brings his hand to Diarmuid’s lap. Taking Diarmuid’s hand, he pulls it up, and presses it against his heart. Diarmuid feels it beating wildly, underneath the warmth of the Mute’s skin, the roughness of his shirt, and Diarmuid smiles. Because he understands what the Mute is saying. _I dream of you, I dream of us. I want it too. I love you too_.

A bell rings in the distance for None, and Diarmuid pulls his hand away regretfully. But before he leaves, he leans in close and whispers –

“Tonight.”

 

~

 

Diarmuid always knows when he is dreaming.

And when he finds himself lying in the arms of the Mute, in the impossibly soft grass, under an impossibly brilliant sky, he smiles.

“Hello,” he whispers, not wanting to disturb the peace.

The Mute moves down, pulling his arm out from beneath Diarmuid’s head, to face him. His face speaks for him, full of wonder.

“You can speak here,” Diarmuid begins carefully, “But – if you would not, do not. I – understand. No vows are broken in dreams. Not mine or yours. But that is your vow to keep.”

The Mute nods.

“This … this place only exists for a week. A week at the height of every spring. That is what Brother Rua told me. But I think – I think anything is possible. God led us here, not the Sídhe. Maybe – it will last longer for us. Even if it does not, I … I would return here again. In a year if we must. Is that … do you …”

“Yes.” The Mute’s voice is exactly, _exactly_ as Diarmuid had remembered it.

It is a single word. It is nothing at all.

It is everything.

Diarmuid can hold back no longer. He rushes forward to kiss the Mute, pulling him in, tugging at his hair with an utter disregard for gentleness. It’s as if a flood has suddenly come upon him – come upon them both – for the Mute is equally as possessive, running his hands along Diarmuid’s back, forcing their hips into contact. Diarmuid gasps against the Mute’s mouth, and it turns into a moan as the Mute begins to kiss his neck, far more gently than Diarmuid had kissed him there before. With a pang of gratitude, Diarmuid realises he’s being careful not to leave a mark which will be there when they wake.

It is the work of a few moments to divest themselves of their clothing, pulling and tugging at one another until they are, at last, skin against skin. But this time, Diarmuid pushes gently at the Mute’s shoulder until he is able to roll over him, legs on either side of the Mute’s waist. The Mute leans up to kiss him thoroughly, and Diarmuid helps hold him up, slipping a hand around his waist, the other into his hair.

It feels as natural as breathing, settling back into this rhythm. Diarmuid rolls his hips in languid movements, as much because the sensation stokes his pleasure as because he wants to hear the quiet, low sounds the Mute permits himself to make. Or perhaps, the sounds he cannot help but make. The thought, absurdly, makes Diarmuid feel a keen sense of pride.

Eventually, it is not enough. Diarmuid pulls back, running his hands over the Mute’s chest, cherishing the sensation of his warm skin, his scars, his muscles.

“You’re beautiful,” Diarmuid says.

The Mute gazes up at him with an incredulous expression, as if he cannot believe Diarmuid’s words.

“You are,” Diarmuid insists. “Let me show you.”

He positions himself carefully, reaching back to guide the Mute inside. This is a dream, after all, and Diarmuid has always known how to mould his dreams to his will. Even when he shares the space with another. There is nothing he does not know how to do here.

He takes the Mute inside him just as easily as he did before. And like before, the mere sensation leads a wave of pleasure to roll over his body, and he opens his mouth, eyes falling shut. He feels the Mute struggling not to move, feels him put his hands on Diarmuid’s hips and grip them tightly.

And then Diarmuid begins to move again, finding another rhythm, one which is a little quicker – a little more forceful. It goes on, slowing and quickening again, and the Mute guides him with his hands. Diarmuid pushes himself when he feels his body tiring, knowing that the Mute deserves this. Deserves a feeling as wonderful as he’d given Diarmuid before.

He leans down to kiss the Mute, not letting up for a second, balancing with one hand and stroking his thumb against the Mute’s cheek with the other. His whole body begins to tremble, and he’s so warm he’s sweating, straining – he _knows_ his release is near. But he can’t stop. He can’t stop until the Mute feels as good as this.

But just as it’s becoming too much – just as he begins to feel himself wavering – the Mute leans in close to his ear.

“Let go,” he whispers, and Diarmuid –

Finally, _finally_ , he does.

And if the last time had felt like the culmination of a strange and fickle dream, _this_ feels like a miracle. This feels like all the stars in the sky have burst into glorious light, and he knows without knowing how that the Mute feels it too. He cries out, unable to help it, his whole body shaking with it.

He falls onto the Mute, listening as the Mute’s heart beats rapidly in his chest. The Mute strokes his back, holding him steady. For a few minutes, they do nothing but lie together, completely and utterly satisfied.

Finally, the Mute pauses in his movements. He gently pushes Diarmuid up, so that they can look at one another.

“David,” he rasps, placing a hand on his chest.

His name is David.

And with nothing to stop him from doing so, Diarmuid kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid: technically breaking your vows in a magical dream world isn't breaking them right.  
> Diarmuid: because that dick tho.
> 
> Welp, [youtuber voice] remember to kudos the fic, comment on the fic, and share if you wanna see fics similar to this one. See ya.

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, yes I am procrastinating on the next chapter of Talk With Your Fingertips, why do you ask?
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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